


The Swan's Sister

by Losille



Series: The Swan Series [1]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 16:05:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12561080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Losille/pseuds/Losille
Summary: Astrid’s sister Tilde is unaccustomed to taking sick days as one of The Royal Ballet’s most lauded principal dancers, but when a virulent flu sweeps through the corps ranks, it knocks Tilde right off her pointe shoes and into the arms of a helpful (and handsome) stranger.Prequel to The Swan and The Ugly Duckling (but you can read TUG without this).





	The Swan's Sister

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic for this muse, and one of the few James Norton RPF fics I’ve seen. I don’t know a ton about him, but I want to keep it that way for now. I wanted to write this one shot so everyone learns a little bit more about the bride and groom to be featured in The Swan.

****

****_November 2014_

As far as the amount of pain Tilde Petersen had experienced throughout her life, this pervasive, bone-deep ache probably took the cake for being the worst. And she would know about pain, and her tolerance for it thereof, after spending most of her thirty-one years in ballet-related agony. Even as an elite athlete these days, she still suffered the strained muscles and cramps and nerve twinges. But this… malaise… this unending fog and feeling as though she couldn’t even lift her head from her pillow was something else entirely.

She’d never felt so completely useless.

Groaning as she forced herself to roll over, lest she aggravate the pinched nerve she’d been nursing since the season began, she came face-to-face with two beady black eyes blinking back at her. Her constant companion, Duchess, lifted her black velvet ears in a silent question, asking if it was  _finally_  time to play. Or maybe she wanted to eat. When  _was_  the last time Tilde’d been out of bed to feed and water the pug?

Worse, when was the last she’d been outside to do her business?

Tilde closed her eyes and pressed her face into the pillow, letting out another mournful groan. Duchess took this as her opportunity to pounce, nipping at Tilde’s hair and licking her neck. The pug growled playfully when Tilde finally swatted her away and mustered the strength to sit up. But when she did, all the blood rushing to various parts of her body and her stuffed sinuses messed with her equilibrium. She clutched her head and shut her eyes, waiting for her head to stop spinning. Honestly, she hadn’t felt like this since her eighteenth birthday and the whole corps de ballet took her out after the season’s close to get her plastered. It hadn’t been hard to intoxicate a five-foot-four, hundred-pound-soaking-wet dancer. The resulting hangover? Legendary.

But  _nothing_  like this.

She’d never been this sick. Ever. Maybe she’d been lucky, or maybe it was because she avoided germs and illness like the plague, or maybe because she made a point of maintaining a very healthy life during her tenure as a ballerina at The Royal Ballet, but she couldn’t remember a time where she’d felt this horrible.

Or when she’d missed work.

She hated missing work. If it could be helped, missing work in the professional ballet world just wasn’t done; younger, hungrier dancers were always waiting in the wings to usurp better roles whenever they smelled blood in the metaphorical water. It was too easy to slip away and have the casting directors forget about you if you weren’t there in their faces every day. The fierce competition never allowed anyone to sit on their laurels.

Tilde felt like a failure sitting all alone like a lump in her bed, but she could barely stand, much less dance. And if she tried to dance, she’d probably injure something and make her absence from work even longer. So, she’d just have to work doubly hard to get back to it, and then triple her usual two hundred percent effort when she finally returned to rehearsals.

Duchess climbed up Tilde’s legs and torso, stopping to lay down on her chest, giving her mistress the best Sad Puppy eyes she could muster. Unfortunately, the little wiggle in her butt, then her tail, belied her true emotions.

“Walkies?” Tilde croaked, the word grating on her sore throat. She couldn’t sleep any more, not even if she really tried, anyway. She might as well throw on a coat and take the dog out while she was still in the land of the living.

Duchess took a giant leap from the bed, landing with a thump, and then skittered out of the room and down the hallway to the front door. There she yipped. Clearly, she was ready. The clock said it was late morning—the last time Duchess had been out was eleven last night when Tilde returned from rehearsal. The pup’s eyeballs had to be floating by now.

Tilde threw the blankets off and dropped her legs on the side of the bed, curling her hands into fists and pushing them into the bed to lift her from the mattress. It took way more effort than it should have, really, but at least she was up. A bit dizzy… but up… and moving. Slowly. And with very little grace.

Glancing toward the window across the room, she noted the grey clouds and the rain glazing the glass. She stuck her feet in the pair of wellies with the multi-color polka dots and pulled on an old UNLV sweatshirt—which reminded her to give her sister a call later—over her thermal top. Completing the look, she chose a thick down jacket with a hood and shoved her greasy, unkempt hair into a slouching knit ski cap she pulled from the depths of her coat closet. She didn’t even stop to glance in a mirror, knowing she looked terrible.

And she preferred not to hear her mother’s voice in her head, begging her to put on some makeup before she stepped outside. Mother would be aghast knowing one of her daughters left the house looking like a slob. Already, Tilde tamped down the memories of the woman’s constant nagging warnings of ‘you never know who you’ll bump into’, as the reason why her children should never set foot outside without presenting the best image they could.

She shuddered, a combination of a fever chill and revulsion borne from her thoughts. Thinking about her mom wasn’t going to make her feel better. And frankly, Tilde didn’t care. She’d spent years upon years deprogramming herself from her mother’s neuroses, even though she still grappled with the damage they’d done to this day.

Tilde attached Duchess’ leash and grabbed a poo bag, her keys, and phone—in case she needed to call an ambulance after passing out at the park—and stepped out her front door. One of her neighbors was leaving, too, confirmed when she turned to glance down the long hallway at the sound of another set of keys jingling in a door. Duchess danced around her feet and yipped playfully again, but Tilde concentrated on her own door as the tall man strode down the hall toward the lifts.

“Hello,” he said softly, pleasantly, in a wonderfully smooth, calming voice. She still hadn’t grown tired of the accent here, not since she’d first started at the Ballet’s school. In fact, as her hormones started to kick in and she really started noticing boys, her love for the accent only became worse. Especially spoken by men with deep voices.

She meant to give him a greeting back, but it came out a hoarse whine instead. Best not speak, then, she decided. When she finally finished locking the door, she walked behind him to wait for the lifts, where he hit the call button and stood with his hands clasped in front of him.

Taking a moment to give him a good look, she realized he, too, had dressed for the cold rain, but he looked impossibly posh from behind wearing a fancy black Belstaff coat and jaunty scarf knotted artfully around his neck. Instead of a hat, he carried a closed umbrella, but it allowed her to consider the waves of his dark blond hair. Thick and full and just right to dig a hand into, exactly as she liked. He was tall—very tall compared to her—and lean, too, but she could see the muscled thighs in his jeans and the power in his hands when they flexed in front of him.

And heaven help her, she would have remembered that ass if she’d seen it before.

It was nice to know, in some small part, that not even a horrible flu could take away her lust. At least that part of her wasn’t sick. At least she wasn’t dying—she’d know if she were if her feminine interest didn’t bother to come out and play.

The lift dinged and the door slid back to an empty car. He didn’t step inside immediately and instead stuck his arm out to keep the doors open for her to enter. When he glanced back at her, she nearly fainted. He was beautiful, in a very English way, with a jaw that could cut glass and intelligent blue-grey eyes. She’d seen him somewhere before, she knew she had. She just couldn’t place him.

He cleared his throat when she didn’t move right away. It wrested her from her stupor and she quickly guided Duchess inside the car, heading straight for one corner and resting her fevered head against the cool metal wall.

“Lobby?” he asked when he stepped in after her.

“Please,” she said.

When the door slid closed, and they were left in the lurch of time it takes for the lift to figure out whether the next direction was up or down, Tilde realized the air in the car was charged. Heavy. Heavy with what, though? It was strange. Maybe she was just delirious with fever.

“Have you got the flu that’s going around?” he asked conversationally.

“That easy to tell?” She laughed lightly and coughed into her elbow. Of course, it was easy to tell. If she looked half as bad as she felt, she’d double as a zombie on  _Walking Dead_.

“I don’t think we’ve met at any of the building meetings,” he said, offering her his hand. “I’m James.”

She looked at his hand and then up at his face. His eyelashes were very blond and even more attractive than she’d thought before. “I’m still contagious.”

He only stepped closer to her, his hand outstretched.

“You’re a brave man, James,” she said, taking his hand, immediately feeling a zap of excitement at the touch. Even through all the muck and languor. “I’m Tilde. Mathilde, really. But Tilde, with the ee sound.”

He grinned. “And your dog’s name?”

“Duchess,” she said.

He dropped down and offered a hand to the pug, who eagerly jumped and placed her front paws on his bent knee to greet him. “You’re a love, aren’t you? I never hear you bark. You can be my neighbor as long as you want.”

Tilde laughed, but it was almost too painful. “I haven’t seen you around, either. How long have you been living here?”

“Uh, three years,” he said. “You?”

“Five.”

“I’m an actor, so I keep weird schedules,” he said by way of explanation.

Tilde looked at him again—really looked at him—and finally recognized him. She’d watched  _Death Comes to Pemberley_ too many times to count, considering her infatuation with all things Austen. She had not been immune to the charms of James in the role of Henry Alveston. But that was a few years ago—he must have been in other things since. No one who looked like him would be in want of work.

“Ah, now I know why you looked familiar,” she said.

“So why have I never seen  _you_?” he asked as he stood, making sure she saw him surveying her body from feet to head. Fat lot a good it did him, though. She had no shape with all these layers on. “I think I would have remembered you and your interesting sartorial choices.”

Tilde gave him a laugh. “Ballet dancer, so I have weird schedules, too. Building meetings never fail to be scheduled during evening performances.”

They reached the ground floor lobby and they stepped off the elevator together, the doors once more held open by James until she cleared them. He was a gentleman, at least.

“Ballet, huh?” he asked, scratching at his jaw as they walked together toward the front door. “You dancing Nutcracker?”

She laughed ruefully now. “If I can shake this. I’m losing valuable rehearsal time.”

“What part?”

“Sugar plum fairy,” she said. “Is there another part?”

He chuckled, holding the front door for her. “I was simply determining your level of dancing.”

“I’m a principal. At The Royal Ballet.”

He maintained a straight face, betraying neither a disgust for her obvious namedrop nor impressive approval for her credentials. Finally, his lips twisted into a pleasant smile. “Guess it would have been easier to ask.”

Tilde rolled her eyes. “Maybe.”

She reached for her hood and pulled it over her head. He opened his umbrella and turned to look at her again. “It was nice meeting you, Tilde. I hope we’ll see more of each other.”

Tilde felt heat in parts of her that shouldn’t have heated. Even with a fever. “Me, too. Have a wonderful day.”

“Be well, Sugar plum,” he murmured and turned away, going the opposite direction.

Tilde gently tugged on Duchess’ leash, but she wouldn’t budge for a moment, forcing Tilde to look back at her. Then she caught a glimpse of her new friend as he stopped at a crosswalk down the street. He quickly glanced in her direction—one of those surreptitious ones where he didn’t expect to be caught. But she did catch him, and he smiled brightly anyway, waving his hand at her.

Tilde giggled to herself and finally mobilized Duchess, guiding her in the direction of the park next door. Maybe there  _was_ something to taking a sick day every once and awhile.

* * *

“Uh, Tilde?”

The soft male voice did the exact opposite of its calming intention, startling Tilde from a silent pep talk as she stood beside the lift the next morning, pressing her hot forehead to her arm while her arm supported her against the wall.  She’d taken this position to stop the world from spinning, in an attempt to think straight, to get some grasp on reality and bargain with God to let her take Duchess outside to relieve herself and then she’d go right back to bed.

Somehow, in that time, she fell into a twilight sleep.

How could the flu have gotten  _worse?_ Wasn’t yesterday bad enough?

She stepped away from the wall and looked up at the tall man, this time not at all concerned about how attractive he looked in his sexy Belstaff and reasonably tight jeans. “Yes?” she asked, her voice much more amphibian-sounding than the previous day.

James’ expression of hesitancy dropped. Concern wrinkled his forehead, instead. “I suppose I shouldn’t ask if you’re feeling better.”

Tilde shook her head. “I can barely stand.”

He hummed lowly, pressing his lips together as he glanced at his watch, debating something. “Listen, I’ve got some time until I need to be anywhere. Let me take Duchess out for you.”

“I can’t possibly ask—”

One of his large hands rested on her upper arm, squeezing just so. Enough to stop her, but more than enough to remember the charged interest that had passed between them when they shook hands.

“I insist.” His expression brooked no argument, but she still felt uncomfortable.

Tilde looked at the lift again, and at the call button, finding that it wasn’t even lit. Had she even pressed it before falling against the wall? Maybe it would be better to let him take Duchess out. Who knew what would happen if she was out in the world.

With a sigh, she held out the end of the lead and the plastic waste bag. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure I’m sure,” he said, taking both things and hitting the call button. “We’ll be back in a jiff.”

Tilde nodded and turned around. “Thank you, James.”

She didn’t wait for him to say anything else and practically crawled her way back to her front door. Rather than lock it again so he could return Duchess without her having to get up from bed, she dropped her keys in the dish by the door and peeled layers of clothing off as she went back to her bedroom.

A swan dive onto the comfortable mattress was out of the question; she settled on collapsing like an imploding building instead, face first into the mattress. She pulled the heavy down comforter up over her shoulders, curled into the fetal position and shut her eyes.

She only opened them sometime later when there was a knock at her door. Yelling for James to come in didn’t cure the annoying rapping, as it stopped and started a few seconds later. James couldn’t be that stupid, could he?

Grumbling, she tossed her covers back, her hand hitting a small warm body as she did. Duchess lay asleep beside her, completely dead to the world. Her leash was gone, and apparently so was James, which made Tilde frown. Why hadn’t he woken her up when he came in?  _Had_  he come in? Or had he just let Duchess loose at the front door and went about his day? Not that she could blame him, if he did. It was an imposition, as it was, to have to take care of a stranger’s pet.

Tilde got up from her bed and walked down the hall. She threw the door back to find the building concierge holding a large basket filled with… stuff.

“I’m sorry to bother, Ms Petersen, but this was delivered for you,” said the man in his standard issue black suit and brass name badge.

She frowned and looked more closely through the clear cellophane wrap at the contents of the basket. Cough drops, the good loose-leaf tea she liked, flu medicines of a wide variety, tissues, chocolate Hobnobs, reading material in the form of magazines and a book of word puzzles. And a packet of dog treats and a Duchess-sized orange ball, as well.

“Put it on my kitchen counter, will you?” she asked.

“Of course, ma’am.” The concierge quickly placed the care package where she wanted it and produced an envelope from inside his coat. “This was delivered with it.”

Tilde took the envelope from him and slid her finger under the flap to tear it open. “Thank you, Rhys.”

He took that as his sign to leave and shut the door behind him. The card inside the envelope was a generic one, but it did have a pleasing meadow of watercolor flowers painted on the front. Inside, the brief note made her smile, even though using those muscles hurt her, too.

> _Sugar plum-_
> 
> _You were out cold when I returned with Duchess. She was a perfect pup._
> 
> _I hope it wasn’t presumptuous of me, but I saw the coats and jumpers trailing down the corridor, so I hung them up for you._

Tilde glanced down the hallway leading to her bedroom, just realizing the clothing she’d left there wasn’t there any longer. So, he  _must_  have come all the way inside if all that was gone—now she didn’t know if she should feel weird that a strange guy was in her flat and saw her sleeping, or if she was okay with it. For some reason, she was leaning toward the latter. Which was weird. She knew hardly anything about him.

> _I’ll be home around eight this evening and will stop over to check on you—and take Duchess out again, if you would like. Meanwhile, enjoy the vittles and medicine._
> 
> _–James_

She held the card to her chest and sighed, but it brought on another coughing fit, interrupting her momentary flirtation with romance.  Grabbing the bottle of cough syrup, she also stuck the stack of magazines under her arm and marched right back to bed. Where she fell asleep, again, in no time.

* * *

By the time James knocked on her door that night, Tilde felt relatively better. At least well enough to stand up, take a shower, and make herself look somewhat presentable. Of course, she realized, it probably had everything to do with the sudden and unwelcome interest she was feeling for her thoughtful neighbor rather than her illness improving, but she used the burst of energy to the fullest. And by presentable, she only managed a clean set of black yoga pants and an oversized fuzzy sweater that swallowed her up before she collapsed on the couch in the living room.

As soon as she heard him, though, the energy was back. In a smaller quantity, but it was enough to wrest herself from her blanket cocoon and hobble to the door. She opened the door to him, immediately receiving a waft of spicy aftershave and soap. His hair was damp—presumably from a shower—and it took everything in her arsenal to ignore the sudden, but certainly not unpleasant, images forming in her head of him naked with water running all down his assuredly handsome body.

“Hi,” she said breathlessly, a combination of lust and chest congestion.

He afforded her a small, lopsided smile. One of those little boy ones that made women turn to mush. “You look better.”

“I feel better.” She coughed into her elbow again. “A little. But… better.”

James laughed and held up a paper bag she hadn’t noticed him carrying. “I’ve brought hot soup, if you would care to join me.”

Tilde rested her head against the partially open door, considering him again. “Why are you being so kind?”

“Would you believe in neighborly goodwill?”

“No,” she said. “Call me a realist, but no one wants to hang around the plague.”

James grinned. “Usually the plague isn’t so adorable in polka dot Wellies and monkey pajamas.”

Tilde frowned, remembering her clothes from earlier. “That wasn’t some sort of invitation, you know. I mean, I know the power of the monkey pjs is great, but you’ve got to contain yourself.”

“Ah! She does have a sense of humor,” he replied. “You  _must_  be feeling better.”

“Yes, the medicine you sent made me loopy.”

He held up the paper bag again. “Dinner’s getting cold. Are you going to let me in?”

Tilde looked back into the silent, empty flat and chewed on the inside of her cheek. She wanted him to come in—for what, though? She wanted the company more than anything. After all, it’d been a very long time since she’d had companionship of any kind outside of work. Unfortunately, the life of a dancer, busy as it was, did not lend itself to maintain many relationships outside of the ballet. What was more, she was, in fact, attracted to him. God help her, but she was, even in her diseased state. And she just didn’t have the willpower—nor inclination—to say no. Though something told her she should.

She stepped away from the door and swept her hand out to invite him into the hall. Duchess, now finally realizing there was a guest, flew out of the bedroom and slid to a halt at his feet. She gave an impressive jump and scratched at his denim-clad leg for attention.

“Duchess! Down,” Tilde scolded and scooted the pug away from him with her foot. The pug loved people, but Tilde couldn’t remember a time the dog had been so excited for a guest to arrive. Apparently having someone assist in a wee and a poo was quite the bonding experience for her.

James laughed. “Why don’t you go sit down and I’ll get this ready?”

“I can help,” she said. “I’m not an invalid.”

“You apparently don’t recall the weaving and stumbling you were doing this morning,” James said. “I’m fine. I’ll figure out where everything is.”

Tilde frowned. “There’s the kettle if you’d like tea or you can make coffee with the percolator. Elsewise—there’s water.”

“Go sit down,” he instructed.

She sighed, realizing she wasn’t going to get anywhere with him, and went to the living room and plopped on the couch. As soon as she wrapped the thick fleece blanket around her legs, Duchess jumped up and settled down in her lap while James banged around in the kitchen. He didn’t ask for any help, obviously finding what he needed.

James returned a short time later with two bowls of soup and a plate with sliced baguette balancing on a tray. “I have to say, I thought my cupboards were bare. But I stand corrected.”

Tilde shrugged. “I usually eat most of my meals at work. Our chef is amazing.”

“I’m sure,” he replied.

He handed out the food and took a seat on the couch, far enough away from her to be comfortable for new friends, but still close enough that she could feel the charged air between them. But then, she figured, she’d probably feel that halfway across the globe.

They ate in companionable silence until she finally spoke.  “Though, as it turns out, I got sick right before it was time to do a grocery shop. And that is  _not_  me asking you to go out for me.”

James laughed. “Am I coming on too strong with the nursing?”

“No,” she said. “It’s sort of cute. But I don’t like relying on other people.”

“Is that why you haven’t got anyone to take care of you?”

Tilde replaced the spoon in her bowl and held the hot ceramic dish in her chilled hands. Looking across the couch at him, she sighed. “Partly, but there’s more to it than that. There’s always more to it, isn’t there?”

“When you looked back into your flat while I was at the door I saw something in your expression,” he replied, as if understanding everything, though he had no idea about anything. And he wasn’t going to find that out after just meeting. “It was almost painful.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve been over here since I was sixteen for ballet school, away from all my family and friends. And, yes, I have friends now, but they’re all dancers, too. So none of them want to be around me while I’m sick, even if they were able to get away from rehearsal.”

“What, you’ve only been here two years, then?” he teased. The diversion of the subject made her head spin, but he clearly sensed she didn’t want to talk about the maudlin topic. Instead, he continued to tease. “You can’t be over eighteen.”

“Nice.” She laughed, her cheeks heating with something other than fever. Maybe it was a different fever. A fever that spread across her body, tightened her breasts, and tickled between her thighs. “I’m thirty-one.”

“You are not. There’s no earthly way you can be three years older than me.”

Tilde grinned. “I can be. I’ll go find my passport, if you’d like.”

“I’ll believe you,” he said, setting his empty bowl on the table in front of them. He reclined in his seat at the opposite end of the couch and threw his arm over the back, turning his body to more comfortably look at her.

“What?” she asked.

He shook his head. “You’re adorable.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I think.”

“You are,” he replied. “And pocket-sized.”

Tilde laughed. It wasn’t the first time someone had said that, but with him, it was more than true. He had to be six-foot, at least. And he dwarfed her in body mass—gorgeous, hard, body mass. “I’m really going to have to burn the monkeys if they’re getting this much of a reaction.”

The corner of his mouth twitched up in a smirk.  _Oh, damn_. That was unnecessary. “Yes, it’s very difficult to contain myself.”

“I should probably get rid of the unicorns, too, just to be safe,” she said.

“You have unicorn pajamas, too?” he exclaimed. “Well, now I’ll  _have_  to stick around to see those.”

Tilde laughed so hard as he continued his teasing, her stomach began to hurt. She clutched her side and doubled over, desperately trying to control herself. When, finally, the laughter died down and they looked across at each other in the heavy silence, she drew in a calming breath and chewed on her lower lip thoughtfully.

She really liked him. A lot.

“If I weren’t sick, you’d probably have already seen much more than the unicorns,” she offered.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even move a muscle, as though he’d been thinking the exact same thing. “You don’t strike me as the lingerie type.”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t talking about clothing.”

She watched him swallow, finding the bobbing of his Adam’s apple sexy. How was that even possible? It was a damn Adam’s apple.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, drawing a finger along the collar of his shirt. “I should probably head out, let you get your rest.”

She pouted. “So soon?”

He stood from the couch and collected their empty dishes, disappearing into the kitchen without saying anything. When he came back to the living room, he set his hands on the back of the couch and leaned over to look down at her. “If I don’t leave now, I’ll have to relinquish my gentleman card.”

“Of course,” she mused, reaching out for him, cupping her palm along the angle of his jaw. “I wouldn’t want you to get sick, either.”

“If I were to become ill, you’d have to play nurse for me,” he said.

“I’m a terrible nurse,” Tilde said. “I hate cooking and cleaning and waiting on people.”

James snorted a laugh. “Good thing I like to dote, then. We’ll balance each other out.”

“You’re too good for me.”

His shoulders lifted in a shrug, but he bent closer to her until she had to blink and adjust her focus on his face. “Why don’t we take some time to find out if that’s really true or if you’re just trying to push me away?”

“When I’m feeling better,” she said, sucking in a breath and holding it.

“Does Duchess need to go out?”

Tilde shook her head. “No, I already fed her and watered her.”

“Alright,” he murmured, slipping closer, pressing his soft lifts to her forehead just over her left brow. It was intimate and sweet, but somehow so unbearably hot.

She thought about grabbing his face and forcing him to kiss her properly, but she stopped herself. The warm food had made her sleepy again, and she didn’t want to ruin whatever this was turning into with a coughing fit or some ill-placed snot. Thinking about it made her shiver in disgust.

“I’ll bring dinner tomorrow,” he said. “Same time.”

“You don’t have to.”

James laughed as he walked to the door. “But I  _want_  to.”

“Well, if you want to.”

“How long are you out of work?” he asked.

“I took off to Monday,” she replied.

James opened the door and looked back at her. “Then we have a standing date for dinner for the next four nights.”

“Are you sure you can handle it?” she asked. “I might whip out the unicorns.”

“Bring it on.” He winked and stepped outside, pausing again to stick his head back inside for a second. “Take your medicine.”

Tilde threw a throw pillow at his head, making him laugh again. “Goodbye!”

“Ta!” he said, finally leaving her alone to her thoughts…

And an empty flat.

Again.

At least she could say, with some degree of certainty, that his brief presence for dinner had lifted her spirits and made her feel better. Brightened her day in a way it hadn’t been brightened for a long time. Except now she had a pesky fluttering gut, threatening to cause a whole host of other problems.

Those problems, though, would hopefully turn out to be much more delightful than her current flu symptoms.


End file.
